


Experiments in Espressos

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Always1895, Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, Bad Puns, Board Games, Coffee Puns, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Prompt Fic, Questionable scientific experiments, Science Experiments, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: 2 am - 20 hours without sleep. The experiment may be starting to affect me. Slight heart palpitations earlier -either due to the caffeine or lack of sleep. Maybe lack of food too. Only other possible stimulus could be the barista, but logically speaking, it's impossible for a smile or a brush of fingers as drinks are passed over to have an effect on the circulatory system.John works the night shift at a 24-hour coffee shop, and meets a mildly sleep-deprived and caffeine-dependent Sherlock Holmes, experimenting on the effects of sleep deprivation on his mind and body.This is written for the Always1895 September prompt: Coffee Shop.





	1. Chapter 1

No night shift at the twenty-four-hour coffee shop - which no one needed and no one asked for - is ever the same, but even this part of John's life becomes formulaic after a couple of months.

The students are the most frequent customers John has to deal with, with their hands, which are shaking with caffeine-induced energy, frantically typing out their essay minutes away from the deadline, a half-empty cup of coffee next to them which John refills whenever they look particularly in despair. They write things down in notebooks, frantically read novels in one night, highlight entire pages as though the text will somehow be more memorable on a pink background than a plain white one. (In John's experience, it isn't.) The grateful, watery smiles nearly make the whole shift somewhat worth it, to know that his purpose now, though no longer an army doctor saving lives, is still somewhat appreciated and a positive contribution to people's lives. Plus, it serves as a pleasant reminder of his uni days, studying for anatomy tests overnight, having wasted the week in advance meeting friends or staying over in girlfriends' flats. Back when he had friends and an easy life, free of nightmares and limps and scars from a war he has long since stopped caring about.

The heartbroken people are the second most common faction of the people John finds in the coffee shop; the ones kicked out of the flat in the middle of the night, or avoiding their girlfriends as they contemplate whether to break up with them while they drink their latte (or a Whole Latte Love, as the drink is ironically named). The women crying into their phones as they pick at a chocolate muffin, conflicted and upset and with stories gradually less interesting to eavesdrop on as the evening wears on. It gets tiresome listening to sobbing for hours on end, and it gets to a point where John couldn't help but glance at the clock, silently begging it to go faster so he can go back to the flat and sleep for a little while.

Sometimes, he got the outliers. The occasional couple who want to be spontaneous but don't have the money or time for a surprise trip to Paris, so instead go out for a coffee date at two in the morning. There are people returning from clubs and concerts, or pre-teens who thought that running away from home was a good idea for all of two minutes before remembering that they are totally helpless on their own and that their parents probably won't kill them for losing their school bag. Once, he got a group of men out on a stag do who came in drunk, demanding where the strippers were. (John couldn't blame them - the owner thought it was funny to name the coffee shop 'Hot and Steamy', so misunderstandings are inevitable.) 

None of these people - no matter how relatively interesting the backstory - can ever make up for the fact that John's life was unbearably, mind-numbingly, excruciatingly dull. He had heard of soldiers struggling to adapt to civilian life, but never of this being due to them missing the war zone, nor did he hear of distressing nightmares that made them feel empty with longing as they stare up at the ceiling of his cheap, run-down flat. All he had these days was this job, his sister's hand-me-down phone, and people watching, and he doesn't even have the comfort of knowing if this is normal.

Then Sherlock Holmes opens the coffee shop door and walks into his life, and as far as John could tell at the time, he fits into none of the above customer categories.

John's first impression is that he can't remember anyone else looking so put-together at two in the morning in his entire three months of the night shift, neither emotionally unstable nor on the verge of falling asleep on the table. He walks into the coffee shop with purpose, his eyes as bright and alert and blue as the midday sun reflecting on the sea, and his clothes are unwrinkled. Most people's clothes at this time are scruffy or uncoordinated out of pure exhaustion, or even just a coat over some pyjamas. But this man wears a suit, impeccably dressed as if he had spent hours primping and choosing what to wear, what product to have in his hair, what shoes suited his outfit. Or maybe this comes naturally to him, rolling out of bed with perfect curls and throwing on whatever he could find. John looks down at his own outfit - a jumper stained with coffee, old jeans loose from weeks of lacking the motivation to eat, and an ugly plastic cane by his side - and resists the urge to be self-conscious.

"Can I get the - ugh," he grimaces, now noticing the names of the drinks on the board. John can't blame his reaction, but he chuckles anyway in the sadistic way most people do at the knowledge that someone else hates a bad joke. "The espresso, please."

"We don't have an espresso listed, I'm afraid," John replies innocently. He may as well have fun with this to try and get through the next four hours, and the customer is giving off a public school vibe that deserves to be teased a little. "Want to try again?

The man glares at him. "Fine. The... 'Espresso Yourself', please. A double." He struggles to get the words out, as though it is causing him genuine pain. Maybe it is. John makes the most of the delayed words to appreciate the man's voice, so dark and smooth John could probably get a drink named after it (if he knew the man's name.)

"Good. Got it eventually. Coming right up." 

At this point, he has no reason to continue the conversation with this mysterious stranger; he is at work, after all, with a duty to be professional (though he supposed that went out of the window when he tortured him into saying the name of the drink out loud). Besides, he knew nothing about the man that could possibly be a conversation starter, except his loathing of poor jokes. John exchanges the Espresso Yourself for money, and that's where he expects the conversation to end that evening.

As there is no one else entering the coffee shop, John finds himself with nothing to keep himself occupied. He gives up on watching the door for customers and watches the man at a distance from behind the counter instead. The man places the cup on the table and then gets out a phone, then a notebook and pen, then a number of files. (John's eyebrows raise at this - how did they even fit in there? How many pockets does that coat have?) He starts to scribble things down, pausing every so often to think. John wonders if he is a writer; he has the look of one of those romantic writers, composing poetry or long plotty novels that criticise the state of society today. Maybe he could make John into a character - the thought is more thrilling than it should be, having a stranger so enamoured by him at first sight that he writes him into his universe, giving him excitement and danger and a purpose. But then the stranger switches to his phone, typing rapidly. Is he texting a friend? Family? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?

At most, people normally stay for one, maybe two hours, before getting tired and leaving. But the man continues to remain there until the sky lights up with the first trace of dawn, obscured by grey clouds so that it's not so much the beautiful, orange and golden and rosy sunset John is used to, but the London kind, where the time of day is measured by how grey the sky is. John doesn't pay attention, but only to the man sat at the table in front of the counter, who writes in his notebook every so often - John later figures out that it's on the hour - then switches between looking through the case files and only gets up to ask for refills.

The man eventually leaves his seat to go to the loo (proof that he is somewhat human and not some ethereal creature who runs on espresso and goes without normal bodily functions) and John lets his curiosity get the better of him. He makes his way over under the pretence of a refill and looks inside the notebook, left open on a page full of scribbled writing.

_January 29th 2010_

_Trial 3 - with caffeine_

_Subject and observer: Sherlock Holmes_

_Day 1._

_10 pm - 16 hours without sleep. No symptoms of exhaustion. To be expected._

_11 pm - 17 hours without sleep. Still no symptoms. Caffeine keeping me alert. Better quality coffee than the last coffee shop, even if the drink names are abysmal. Some of the worse examples include:_  
Cup o' Iced Joe  
Whole Latte Love  
Espresso Yourself  
I've Bean Better  
Mocha the Week  
You're Brewtiful  
Americano, not American't  
No Place Like Foam 

_I don't even know the majority of the references, but I can only assume understanding it only makes the 'jokes' more awful._

John chuckles at the observation and continues reading:

_Have solved six cases in the last hour. All ones and twos. Missing spouses and pets and family heirlooms. Not nearly as much satisfaction as solving a proper murder._

Okay, John thinks. So he's a policeman and not a writer. Still, that doesn't let him sway his imagination, switching the nature of the fantasies from quiet and mysterious writer to intelligent but mildly dangerous cop - chasing down criminals, manipulating suspects into confessing with his deep voice, maybe even wearing a police uniform. (Would the man suit a uniform? ... Yes, he definitely would.) John can only dream of the exciting life this man must lead, if he ignores the logical side of his brain pedantically reminding him of all the paperwork the policeman must deal with. 

_12 pm. 18 hours without sleep. Slight shaking in my fingers from caffeine. Have gone through all the cases in my inbox. Not so much due to the simplicity of them but due to the lack of them. Should probably think about publicity a bit more, but that would be redundant. I'm a consulting detective, after all - a private one. Not some celebrity acting as a puppet for the press and fans._

_1 am - 19 hours without sleep. Fingers still shaking but wide awake. Have solved the Irving cold case. Mildly interesting this time - mysterious cause of death, missing toenails on the body, jealous siblings, secret cult.  
The barista thinks he's being subtle when he looks at me. He really isn't. Somehow, I consider this behaviour endearing. To do: experiment on how sleep deprivation affects the tolerability of emotions._

_2 am - 20 hours without sleep. The experiment may be starting to affect me. Slight heart palpitations earlier -either due to the caffeine or lack of sleep. Maybe lack of food too. Only other possible stimulus could be the barista, but logically speaking, it's impossible for a smile or a brush of fingers as drinks are passed over to have an effect on the circulatory system._

John blushes and smiles to himself. He hears a toilet flushing and so quickly skims the rest of the page before the man - Sherlock Holmes? - can come back.

_3 am - 21 hours without sleep. Second cold case solved. Kidnapping. 50-year-old case so both victim and culprit are probably dead by now. Useless.  
Have turned to deducing barista, the only other person present: soldier, recently sent home after injury, psychosomatic limp, frequent nightmares, sleep deprived, lacking money, not the person who came up with the drink names (thank goodness. I wouldn't willingly interact with him otherwise, even to get refills). Could interview him as a second subject for sleep deprivation experiment._

Weird, John thinks, a small thrill shooting down his spine. For the sake of his security in his own sanity, he labels it as being creeped out at being observed and deduced so accurately, like his mind has been read, and not at all flattered or attracted to the idea.

_4 am - 22 hours without sleep. Dog barked outside. Thought of Redbeard. Feeling strangely sentimental. Anomaly - none of the other trials had this effect, not even into the 48th hour of sleep deprivation.  
Soldier's name tag says John. _

The most recent update is written in scrawly, messy writing from a shaking hand, often tilting downwards by the end of the line. _5am - 23 hours without sleep. Reaction very much stronger than previous nights. Hands shaking, heavy eyelids, slight light-headedness. Definitely an anomaly. Writing on board now too blurry to read stupid pun names, thank god. Ergo, sleep ~~deprevasion~~ deprivation is a good thing.  
~~The soldier is still looking at me.~~_

John curiously skims through the previous pages of the notebook and finds pages upon pages of observations of Sherlock's own behaviour after so many hours of sleep, about how levels of caffeine and blood sugar affected this, how efficiently he was able to work on cold cases and cases from clients. The man leads a fascinating life, something that seems more out of a work of fiction than reality. 

"Ahem." John jumps back and turns around, to find Sherlock stood there, arms folded, one questioning eyebrow raised, strangely calm and collected for a man running on far too little sleep and far too many coffees. If it weren't for his pale skin, dark eyes, and the dampness from splashing his face with cold water making his fringe stick to his forehead, he would look the same as he did when he first entered. John instantly flushes with embarrassment at being caught out.

"Sorry. I came to refill your coffee and it was just open and - and I got curious. Sorry. I'll leave you alone."

"It's quite alright. I'm not one to discourage curiosity," he says, his words quick and almost slurred together from the sheer speed they're spoken with. He takes his seat, and as John is about to walk away, he speaks again, "What did you think of it?"

He turns around. "Your experiment?" He decides that he may as well be honest. No one is going to complain about customer service at a 5 am shift. "Sounds pretty dangerous, going all that time without sleep."

"It's fine. I know my body's limits."

"Do you though?" John can't help but respond with a small smile. "It looks like you wouldn't be doing this experiment if you did know that your body needed sleep."

"Who says I need sleep?"

"Says doctors. Scientists."

"I don't trust them."

John huffed out a laugh. "Why not?"

"I prefer to come to my own conclusions. Why do you?" A beat, and a small smirk. "Oh, I see." 

"What?"

Sherlock smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Army doctor. Should have known."

John falters and stutters. "What? Who said anything about - "

"Come now, you're too quick to come to the defence of people in the medical profession to be otherwise. And you saw my notebook. You know I recognised you as a soldier earlier."

"But how?"

Sherlock gestures at John to take a seat. He would be ashamed of how quickly he sat down to listen to the detective talk further without caring about professionalism if he gave a damn about his job at all. The detective smiles approvingly. "Very good." The patronising tone of voice makes John almost roll his eyes. "So, as you may have seen from reading my notebook, I'm a consulting detective. It is my job to see the obvious that the police tend to miss, and so I observe more about other people that others tend to miss. Like how the than that doesn't go above your wrist, your military haircut, and your stature indicates you were in the army."

"And the other deductions?"

"Old jumper. Old phone. Bags under your eyes. Jumpy at loud noises. Financial stress and sleep deprivation caused by PTSD. Obvious."

"Brilliant," John exclaims once he comprehends what Sherlock is saying, as he had spoken so fast from the sheer amount of caffeine-induced energy he is storing up. Sherlock blinks rapidly, apparently frozen by surprise. "Seriously, it's impressive."

"Oh. Thank you."

"You're blushing," John observes, which causes the faint pink hue to deepen on the man's cheekbones.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Well, then, it's the caffeine. Increased heart rate, blood flow, et cetera, et cetera."

"Right. Of course," he grins. "Well then. I'd better leave you to it. But seriously though, as a medical professional - _ex_ medical professional - I can assure you that the experiment is completely unnecessary. The number of espressos you've drunk this evening is disturbing, and lots of recent tests have been done. You don't need to ruin your own sleep schedule to prove that the effects of this are...a bit not good, to say the least."

"And were they tested on rats or real people?" Sherlock asks sardonically. "I only trust myself to get the results I need." 

"Okay then. So why are you only using yourself as a subject? Not exactly the most reliable way to do things, is it?"

"Who else would I test it on?"

"Friends? family? colleagues? Girlfriend or boyfriend?"

"I find my family too unbearable as it is, without subjecting them to my experiments. I suppose I have Lestrade and the others at Scotland Yard, but I doubt they would agree."

"What about friends?"

"Not an option. The closest thing I have to a friend is my landlady, who is insufferable enough as it is." The way he said these words was fond enough for John not to think he had an irrational hatred of his landlady. "And I'm not in a relationship. Even if I was, I doubt people let their significant others experiment on them."

"Well, that would depend on the experiment, surely," John quips, satisfied at the twitch of lips his joke gets in response. "Well, I could fill that position."

Sherlock splutters and chokes on his coffee. "I'm sorry?"

"Your guinea pig," John explains. "For your experiment. You said so yourself; I hardly ever sleep anyway, and it means more proof for your experiment." 

"I see. And what's in it for you? Do you want money for your time? Because that's possible and only fair..."

"No, absolutely not. No charity case," he shakes his head firmly. "I only want..." _someone to talk to who isn't my sister or therapist, a break from the daily routine, something to distract me from the boredom and despair at being home before my time._ "To know that you're going to sleep tonight and as much of tomorrow as possible. Try and get ten hours at least tonight."

"You drive a hard bargain, John..?"

"John Watson. And no, I don't. It's a very reasonable amount of sleep." 

"Not for me, and definitely not for you either. What did you get - three, four hours of sleep yesterday between shifts? Seems rather hypocritical to me."

"No, it's not. I'm an ex-soldier, remember?" Sherlock doesn't look embarrassed or guilty at John's PTSD being brought up, and if he is honest, it is sort of a relief. "And I have the night shift here. I have an excuse, you don't. But if eight hours is not possible, sleep six hours tonight, and another six tomorrow night. And take a break off work."

"That's an even harsher price for what is essentially a small interview about your sleep schedule."

John shrugged with a coy smile. "I consider my opinion of a high value, and that is the only price I am willing to offer to people who need my services."

Sherlock scoffed. "'Services'. Fine. How about, eight hours tonight, and then I tip you generously tonight instead of sleeping two nights in a row. See? If it's a tip, it's not charity."

John sighs. "Fine, I suppose so. Deal." They reach across the table and shake hands briefly, then Sherlock reaches for his phone in his back pocket.

"So I can contact you for your 'services'," he explains with a smirk, and John has to accept. He types his number and name into the phone then hands it back over.

"I'm on a night shift tomorrow, and then there's a two-day window until my next shift where I'll try and catch up on the sleep I lost. Let me know a time that is best for your experiment."

"Okay." Sherlock nods. He gets the coat from the back of his chair and puts it on as he stands up. "See you soon, John Watson.

"See you soon, Sherlock Holmes."

John watches with a smile stretching his lips as Sherlock leaves, the door swinging behind him as faint early sunlight streams through the clouds and the cafe windows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't bear to leave this fic as a one-shot without resolving it, so here is the second chapter, almost a month later.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments!

**8:17 - 221b Baker Street. Come over immediately. SH**

**8:25 - Who is this and how do you have my number?**

**8:27 - Sherlock Holmes. We met last night. SH**

**8:27 - Come over immediately. I have testing to do on you. SH**

**8:28 - I was sleeping you dickhead.**

**8:29 - No you weren't. You were trying and failing to sleep. SH**

**8:30 - What on earth makes you say that**

**8:31 - The grammatical errors (really, John, if you're going to call me a dickhead, at least put a comma beforehand), the short temper, the several minutes it took for you to realise who was texting you despite the very obvious clues. SH**

**8:31 - Doesn't seem obvious to me.**

**8:31 - Of course it doesn't. SH**

**8:31 - As I said. Baker Street. Now. I have testing to do. SH**

**8:33 - Fine. Give me half an hour.**

**8:34 - By the way, speaking of knowing who you are, you don't have to keep adding your initials at the end of every text. Your number is saved in my phone now.**

**8:35 - Your complaint is acknowledged, but I have elected to ignore it. SH**

**8:36 - Of course you have.**

**8:37 - By the way, didn't I tell you to get six hours of sleep? It definitely hasn't been six hours.**

**8:37 - My brain woke me up after four. Obviously, my own body rebels at being kept stagnant for so long. SH**

**8:38 - Maybe you just need to get into a routine.**

**8:40 - Maybe. But that requires effort. SH**

**8:40 - See you soon. SH**

**8:46 - Don't consume any caffeine. SH**

****

****

****

****

****

****

**8:46 - Oh, now you tell me. The kettle only just boiled.**

****8:48 - Shame. Now hurry up and get ready. SH** **

****

****

~

The cab pulls up outside of 221 Baker Street and John steps out, his exhausted brain only barely remembering to pay the cabbie before leaving. Cabs are an indulgence John rarely can afford, but given how sleep deprived he is, with the lack of caffeine in his system only making that worse, the idea of getting on a crowded tube or dealing with ticket machines seems like a nightmare. The tube is hard enough as it is with his cane - the sympathetic looks, people feeling guilty and drawing attention to his injury by giving up their seats. It's humiliating more than anything, as he is usually perfectly happy standing up.

He knocks on the door to the building, expecting for Sherlock to open it with, hopefully, an apology for disturbing his post-shift sleep - though as far as John could tell, he didn't seem like the apologetic type. From what John could tell from their conversations last night and this morning, the man is utterly shameless, rude when he stops making the effort to be charming, and quite possibly the most interesting thing that has happened to John in months. The door soon opens, but not by Sherlock, by an older woman instead, who smiles happily and greets him, "Hello! Are you here about the flatshare?"

John frowns, wondering if he's at the right address. "Flatshare? Sorry, I don't - "

"With my tenant, Sherlock Holmes. At 221b," she explains, reassuring him that he is at the right building. _So this is the landlady he mentioned last night._ "I've been telling him to get a flatmate so he can split the rent. Even with the discount, it's a little too much for him to handle on his own, but he always insists on paying it on his own. Honestly, these trust fund babies, they think that money simply pops out of the ground - "

"Mrs Hudson." Behind her, Sherlock appeared, looking slightly less exhausted than last night, apparently having listened to John's advice, and mildly embarrassed. "This is John Watson. He is not here about the flat. He's just here as my..."

John attempts to finish Sherlock's sentence as he struggles. "As his..." Colleague? Friend? Experiment subject? None of those labels seemed adequate, except for the last one, which would only make it seem weird. Mrs Hudson simply nodded knowingly and smiled.

"Don't worry, dear, we get all sorts around here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones."

"What? No, we're - "

Mrs Hudson ignores his protests and opens the door wider. "Oh, come in, you must be freezing! Don't mind my chatter. Come in, come in." She gently ushers John in as he wearily smiles in greeting at Sherlock, who immediately turned around and rushed up the stairs dismissively. Trying not to feel offended, John follows behind, conscious of the heavy fall of his limp on each step. Sherlock opens the door for him at the top.

"Thank you for coming today, John," he says, closing the door behind John.

"It's alright. I had nothing better to do." Not true - he has sleep to do, but he'd rather not offend his host. John sits down on an armchair, a soft, red one opposite the black leather armchair that seems like the one Sherlock is most likely to choose. 

"I quite agree. Let's start with the basics, then, shall we?" Sherlock sits down opposite with a dramatic swish of his burgundy dressing gown, which he is wearing over the top of a dress shirt and trousers, John notices with amusement. He crosses one leg over another and takes out his notebook and pen from the night before. "So, John Watson. You got three hours of poor quality sleep last night, interrupted by nightmares. The night before - or rather, day before, before your shift - you got six hours of sleep total, not counting the interruptions every two to three hours when your restlessness and nightmares got the better of you. You are very deprived of sleep and therefore the perfect subject for my experiment. Any questions?"

Yes, several, John thinks, but he shakes his head, as amazed at the deductions as the night before and suddenly feeling slightly more awake. "No. No, you got it in one. Just tell me what I need to do."

"I have decided to test your cognitive abilities through a series of tests from a range of difficulties. We will do this repeatedly when you have had varying levels of caffeine consumption and sleep deprivation. I trust I have your consent to observe you as you take these tests and record the results?"

"Yes."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned, then from under the table between them he drew out a brightly coloured cardboard box and opened it. "We'll start with Operation." 

John stares blankly at the board game in front of him. "You're joking, right?"

"What?"

"It's a bloody board game."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"It's hardly scientific, is it? They're for kids."

"No, it clearly advertises itself as 'fun for all ages', do keep up, John," Sherlock says calmly, as though speaking to someone especially ignorant. Sure enough, 'fun for all ages' is written distinctly on the box. Besides, I also have Cluedo, chess, scrabble and connect four. A diverse range of tests for different abilities. What's more scientific than that?"

John can name a large number of things more scientific than kids' board games. He glances down at his left hand, which is still for now, but tremors occur erratically, unpredictably, no matter how much sleep he had. Sherlock speaks softly over his thoughts. "Your tremor is accounted for. There are other tests, ones where brain activity is far more important than the capabilities of your hand.

John pauses in thought then nods. "Fine. Let's do this." He picks up the scalpel in one hand, then grins at Sherlock. "You're going down, Holmes."

Sherlock smirks, leaning back in his chair then replies, "Bring it on, Doctor Watson."

They play five rounds, two of which John wins, surprisingly, though he has a feeling Sherlock may have cheated slightly to let him win. As they play, Sherlock scribbles down notes in his notebook, which John makes a mental note to ask to look at later. They then switch over from Operation to chess (awful, John loses within five minutes every single round), from chess to Cluedo (John wins, but only because Sherlock refuses to play properly due to the insult of the game on his profession) from Cluedo to connect four (far too easy. Sherlock practically goves up, allowing John to win a shallow victory.) Finally, they play Scrabble, which John feels slightly more confident about.

"So did you buy all these games just for the experiment?" he asks while Sherlock divides the pieces between the two of them. "You don't seem like the type of person to play these things regularly."

"And what type of person would I be instead?" the other man asks innocently.

"You're a scientist and a detective. I didn't think you'd get much free time for board games." 

"I do, surprisingly enough. They have, on occasion, helped to elevate ennui."

John chuckles. "You need to get out more, mate. Meet people."

"I do 'get out there'. I seem to recall that that's the whole reason we met and you're here now, is it not?" Sherlock replies curtly. 

"Have you ever considered getting to know someone for the sake of something other than science?"

"Like what?"

"Dating."

"No."

"Okay, then." John doesn't pry further, though god he wants to. John hasn't been up for dating since he got back from Afghanistan, but at least he has the excuse of a cane, PTSD, and a night shift interfering with his personal life (though he knows many invalided soldiers who had a steady love life after getting injured. He supposes it requires patience and a confidence he no longer had.) Sherlock, on the other hand, did not have these disadvantages. He was free and self-employed, beautiful and intelligent, "What about a flatshare?"

"Definitely not. This is my space. I'm not having someone else clutter it up with... inane books, or DVDs, or empty beer cans, or kicking me out so they can bring significant others around."

"Right. That's a shame though. It's a lovely flat, and I'm sure if you asked someone would happily move in on your terms, without them cluttering up the space with books or DVDs or partners." John himself would move in if he was asked. The flat is far better than his own, with much more space and a homely, authentic feel about the place, unlike the cold and unwelcoming atmosphere of his bedsit. 221b is designed to be a home; his bedsit is designed to be a prison. "Right, then. Your turn?"

Sherlock manages to win most rounds. His extensive science vocabulary gives him a distinct advantage over John ("yes, xenolith is a real word!") By the fourth, John's exhaustion hits like a brick wall, and he is blinking rapidly to keep himself from falling asleep then and there in his chair. Fortunately, Sherlock notices. "I've got everything I need now. You can go home, John."

Home? Ah, yes. The bedsit. The longer John stays here, the more uninviting his bedsit becomes. He sighs and stands up, picking up his cane and his coat. "Alright. Thanks for all this. It's been fun."

Sherlock frowns, genuinely and endearingly confused. "I should be the one thanking you, John. In fact, I should be paying you if you weren't so proud."

"I don't need paying. I honestly had fun here. I don't get a lot of company other than my therapist and customers - and now you, I suppose. Which sounds very sad now that I think about it," John half-chuckles.

"Yes, well, I only have a landlady and a detective inspector who only tolerates my presence because I do his job for him without taking credit, though he insists otherwise."

"This isn't a competition."

"I wasn't intending for it to be, but I would win if it were." Sherlock grins. "Anyway, you'd best be on your way. I'll permit you one hour of sleep."

"One?!"

"And then one after your shift. The whole experiment is based on the variable of sleep deprivation."

"I'll pass out before we even get to chess and you know it."

"Nonsense, I have the utmost faith in you. Don't worry, I will allow you two hours after your shift before we meet tomorrow."

"Oh, a whole two hours? You're spoiling me." John rolls his eyes with a smile. "See you soon, Sherlock. Get some more rest."

Sherlock exhales through his nose, his eyes closed, as though the sheer idea of sleep was torture, then says reluctantly, "as you wish."

~

On their second session together the next morning, John doesn't pass out, but he definitely wouldn't have got through it if it weren't for the black coffee Sherlock offers him. He usually goes for coffee with milk, but at that moment he would have chewed raw coffee beans if it meant staying awake for longer so that he won't disappoint Sherlock.

~

On the fourth session, he has had eight hours of sleep, his nightmares easing somewhat in their intensity. Sherlock still wins most rounds. John starts to suspect he is just a bad player.

~

On their seventh session, John actually wins a round at chess. He suspects Sherlock may have let him win, but he's too pleased with himself to put much effort into thinking about it.

~

On the ninth session, Sherlock comes around to the coffee shop in person with all of the games in a bag. "I had a case for the last three days. Now is as good a time as any to continue the experiment," he explains. Once John is sure there are no more customers to deal with, he joins Sherlock at the table and starts to play, pausing every so often to get him the coffee and sustenance he missed out on while working so hard on the case.

Sherlock leaves with a generous tip at the table, and he's gone before John can refuse it.

~

"Honestly, I don't understand why you still live here. This place is hateful." Sherlock complains petulantly. "I'm bored simply looking at the colour scheme - 

"Charming," John replies as he brings over a cup of tea - black, two sugars, the same as his coffee - to Sherlock, who is sprawled dramatically on his sofa. "I didn't have to let you stay here. I could easily kick you out, you know."

"What, and leave me out on the streets? Alone? In the cold?" Sherlock pouts his lips, most likely knowing full well at the way John's chest tightened guiltily at the sight. "I was already kicked out of my home once today. All because of one simple mistake."

"You mixed together chemicals that you knew would make an explosion. You studied chemistry at uni. You definitely had it coming." John pats Sherlock's ankles to get him to move so he can sit down next to him, and turns on the tv. "Besides, it's only one night so Mrs Hudson can get cleaners in. You're lucky she likes you so much and wouldn't evict you."

"I know. I suppose I'm rather fond of her as well." Sherlock sips at his tea and hums, satisfied. "What are we watching?"

"I thought I'd show you some of the things I do when I have nothing better to do. You have board games, I have James Bond." John presses play. "First up: Goldfinger."

"God, this is hateful."

Sherlock spends their eleventh meeting sighing and complaining as John forces film after film on him. Eventually, he sits in complacent silence and watches, even with some interest, though he would never admit that.

He falls asleep at two in the morning in the makeshift bed made out of the couch, an old blanket and a spare pillow. John passes him when he wakes up at six - more the result of the routine left over from the army than any night terrors - and observes how soft, how calm, how human Sherlock is when he is asleep. He shakes himself out of his ruminations when they start to approach dangerous territory.

~

Sherlock changes the rules of his experiment slightly for their twelfth session by letting them drink as a celebration of the one month anniversary of the start of his experimenting on John. The scrabble round turns into rude-word scrabble, leaving them both giggling like twelve-year-old boys, leaning in their chairs with their knees touching. Drunk Sherlock is giddy and relaxed, friendly and almost flirtatious as he looks at John through his eyelashes, smiles and sips his whisky. He forgets to write any of the results down, so the meeting is left redundant, but when John looks back, hungover at his shift but still grinning at the memory, he can't bring himself to regret it.

~

John plucks up the courage to ask Sherlock more about his love life at their fourteenth meeting over a game of operation. 

"Do you ever date?"

His answer is firm and immediate. "Never."

"Seriously? Why?"

"I have neither the time nor the patience to meet other people. They bore me and disappoint me, usually."

"Don't you get lonely?"

"Why would I? I have you now."

John blushes and does his best to not let himself get distracted by the high praise, so bluntly phrased that it's clearly sincere. "Well, there are certain... needs I can't fulfil," he says delicately. _Not that I would say no._

"I am perfectly happy dealing with those 'needs' alone, as you so eloquently put it. It's your move, John."

"Fine." John picks up a utensil and goes for the wishbone in the cartoon patient's chest. "It's a shame, you know. I think quite a few people would be very happy to get to know you, even if you don't want to know them. You're brilliant."

"Trust me; in my experience, that is generally not the case."

The buzzer blares and John has to put down the utensil. The patient's nose flashes a bright, furious red, matched only by the embarrassed blush in Sherlock's cheekbones.

~

After two months of hearing stories of cases, latching onto every word of every high-speed chase, every deduction, every plot twist like a dying man draining the last drops of water in his supply, John finally gets invited to a crime scene.

They're both at Baker Street, taking a break and drinking tea in comfortable silence, when Sherlock's phone buzzes. 

"Funny. I always thought you never got texts from anyone except me," John quips with a small smirk.

"Shut up, John. I get texts." Sherlock looks at his phone then immediately leaps up out of his seat. "It's Lestrade. A case!"

"A case?"

"Serial killer. All the victims unconnected, except for that they have a little finger missing." Sherlock's face lightens and he even does a small twirl as he puts on his coat to leave. "Oh, it's Christmas."

"Odd way of describing the deaths of three innocent people."

"Well, we don't know that they're innocent for certain until I can get there, but yes, I suppose so." Then Sherlock turns to John, mischief burning in his eyes. "Come with me."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You can assist me. You are medically trained, after all, and accustomed to death and violence."

"Reluctantly so, but you have a point."

"Think of it as part of the tests: a fun, intellectual exercise on five hours of sleep."

"Fun? People are lying dead." Sherlock shrugs with one shoulder. John sighs as he tries to reason with Sherlock and himself. He's much more tempted than he should be to be able to have such an opportunity; though he's no longer as bored and discontent as he was six weeks ago, there's only so many times a man can play chess before he starts to want to tear his eyes out. "I'm no detective, Sherlock. I'll be useless no matter how much sleep I got."

"Maybe." Sherlock tosses John's coat at him with a wink. "But you'll enjoy it."

With that, Sherlock dashes out of the flat and heads downstairs. John sits there for a moment, stunned into silence, then breathes out, "damn it!”

He runs out of the flat, putting his coat on as he follows Sherlock out into a cab.

His cane sits in the living room, leaning against the coffee table.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the case! It's a little bit weird (like I basically just drew a bunch of random words out of an imaginary hat and hoped for the best) but go with it.

The crime scene looks exactly like John expects from spending all those days watching crap daytime detective shows, waiting for his shifts to start and the remnants of his nightmares to end.

The murder took place at the victim's flat in the suburbs. Between the nice houses and the nearby park perfect for families, John would say that it was a perfectly lovely spot to live in, if it weren't for the police cars, the yellow tape, and the immediate stifling sense that someone died here. Sherlock holds up the tape for John to duck under and they enter the flat, which is full of forensics and detectives in matching blue health and safety suits. A silver-haired detective approaches them and nods at John while addressing Sherlock. 'Who's this?"

"He's with me," he replies firmly, ignoring the detective inspector as he looks around the flat, inspecting it with sharp, focused eyes.

"But - "

"I said, he's with me." Sherlock now turns to glare at him, challenging, whithering.

"But you can't bring civilians to crime scenes, Sherlock. It's bad enough that you're here, without you dragging along some random bloke off the street."

"He isn't a 'random bloke off the street', Lestrade. He's an army doctor. Medically trained." Sherlock adds this with a hint of pride, making John smile at the floor. Technically, he's an ex-army doctor, but John wasn't about to correct him and get kicked off the crime scene any time soon.

Lestrade gives a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. I don't know why I bloody put up with this. Put on a suit and go in."

John finds a spare suit and puts it on, while Sherlock continues to look around, ignoring Lestrade's instruction. "Aren't you going to put one on?" he asks. The scowl he receives in return suggests that that was a stupid question. As if there is any chance of him leaving behind any strands of hair or fingerprints or skin cells anywhere, as a normal human being would.

The body, a red-haired woman in her mid to late thirties, is in the living room, in the middle of the floor and lying in a pool of her own blood. She seems fairly normal, in an ordinary flat without any sign of a particularly exciting or extravagant lifestyle, except for the many candles around the room and the books on 'How to Prepare for the Apocalypse' and 'Is Your Soul Ready for Doomsday?'. As promised, the little finger of her right hand is missing, cut off post-mortem. John waits for a sign of horror, or disgust, or guilt at trespassing in the home of someone so recently dead, but instead, he is calm. Focused. Ready for battle. Sherlock is equally unbothered, crouching close to the dead body and inspecting her with his miniature magnifying glass at an unnervingly close proximity.

"Lila Madison. Dead twenty-four hours," Lestrade informs them from the doorway. "She was found by the postman, who saw her body lying there through the window, and called 999 immediately. The door was unlocked and there was no sign of a break in when we found her, so she obviously knew and trusted the murderer enough to let them in. The same goes for the other two victims."

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement and stands up. "Lestrade, I need you to leave."

"What?"

"I can hear you thinking from all the way across the room. In fact, everyone, get out." Just as John is about to reluctantly follow the other pathologists and detectives out of the room, Sherlock says, "except you, John."

He stops dead in his tracks. "Sorry?"

"Why are you leaving him here?!" Lestrade protests. "He's not even a detective. No offence, mate."

John shakes his head to reassure him of the lack of offence, as Sherlock demands, "give us five minutes with the body."

Lestrade grits his teeth with a sigh, replies "you can have two," and obeys Sherlock's request and leaves.

John approaches Sherlock and the body and kneels down with a grunt as his injured leg protests. "What am I here for?"

"I told you, as part of the experiment. Now, tell me what you see."

"A corpse," he replies dryly.

"Excellent deduction, John, but I was hoping you would go deeper."

John exhales softly and shakes his head, resigned to the fact that he is completely wrapped around Sherlock's finger now. "Fine. So. Dead 24 hours from a stab wound in her stomach." He quickly looks over her neck, wrist, nails, then sniffs her mouth. "No sign of bruising or a struggle, and she wasn't drunk or drugged up. So she knew the person who killed her."

Sherlock nods reassuringly. "Good. Good. Anything else?"

"The finger was removed post-mortem. It's a clean break, done with a sharp instrument. Whoever did this was obviously well-practised. Bit disturbing, that."

"But not surprising when you consider that this was the work of a serial killer. We may have to pop round to the morgue to compare this to the other bodies."

"We?"

"Of course. I like company when I go out, and you've proved more than useful so far."

"Really? So I've passed this test in the experiment? Despite being," he checks his watch, "22 hours behind on sleep?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Yes, I suppose so."

Lestrade comes back in. "Right. Time's up. Got anything?"

"Oh, nothing much," Sherlock says as he stands up. "Except that she's single with an irregular and pitiful social life, and that she's training to become a teacher but sketches in her spare time. She's superstitious, though not religious as such. She also recently got out of a relationship with a well-built man who is about six feet tall, perhaps taller, and who is prone to bouts of anger."

"How did you figure that out?" John asks with unrestrained admiration.

"The hole in the wall over there, obviously caused by someone punching it. From the depth and placement, it's easy enough to guess the man's height and strength."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock's head whips around to face John and for a moment, his calm and focused mask slips to show a small, secret smile and his cheeks turning red. It feels like a privilege to be shown this, just for him. _Jesus, I really am gone on him._

The detective inspector clears his throat, making the two of them suddenly aware that there were, in fact, other people in the room. "So do you think the ex-boyfriend did it?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock scoffs, as though Lestrade's suggestion is the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Look at the missing finger; it's a clean cut, one that requires delicacy and steadiness and cold planning. This is not an act of passion or brutality. Besides, it's a serial killer, Lestrade. Victims unconnected."

"Right. Of course. Silly me," he rolls his eyes. "So what do you suggest happened?"

"I don't know. But try and get the boyfriend down for questioning. Family members, friends if she has any. John and I will pop down to the morgue."

"Sherlock."

"Be sure to check CCTV. And ask the victims families if they know her."

"Yeah, obviously, that's standard procedure."

"Sherlock!" John says, louder this time.

"For heavens' sake, John, what?" 

"Come here and look at her hand."

Sherlock crouches down next to John. "Look," he says, pointing at Lila Madison's hand, underneath the stump where her little finger used to be. "See that black mark there? I thought that was ink at first. But it's sort of like a cursive line, so it's intentional. I think it's more like a tattoo, or what's left of it."

Sherlock rubs slightly at the mark, with his gloved hand, and when it obstinately refuses to smudge, Sherlock grins, his eyes widening as though on the verge of an epiphany. "Oh," he breathes. "Oh! Brilliant, John." He grabs John's face in both hands and kisses his forehead, so quickly that by the time Sherlock has stood up John is still staring blankly, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. "Now things are getting interesting. Lestrade, did the other victims have any trace of a tattoo on their hand? Who am I kidding, you wouldn't see it, your eyesight's too poor."

"Oi, cheers."

"Ask the victims' relatives about any tattoos or nearby tattoo parlours. If you need us we'll be in the morgue."

Sherlock rushes out of the room. With a sigh and a smile and avoiding eye contact with Lestrade, John follows, his forehead tingling where Sherlock kissed him.

~

John eventually catches up with Sherlock's long, determined strides and they walk up to the main road to find a taxi. Sherlock seems normal, like kissing John is a completely normal occurrence, though John supposes that it was nothing more than acting on a whim in the heat of the moment. "So," he says, deciding that he may as well act as though nothing happened too. "Got any theories?"

"I try not to theorise before I have all the facts," Sherlock replies calmly. "It would obscure my reasoning and taint the evidence."

"Oh, right. Smart."

"Yes, I've been told I am."

"Git."

Just as a cab pulls up, John's phone vibrates in his back pocket. He sighs as he reads the text on the screen

**16:10 Hey, John. Lucy here. New guy got sick. Undiscovered allergy to cinnamon. Need you to finish his shift as well as do tonight. Will give you a day off in return.**

"Ugh. Sherlock, I'm sorry, I have to go. I have a shift."

"What? No, you don't. You're not scheduled for another five hours."

John ignores the flattering connotation that Sherlock has his shifts memorised, and replies, "I'm really sorry, but the manager just texted. I'll take another cab back to the coffee shop."

"But a morgue is so much more fun than a coffee house!"

"You have your job, I have mine." John shrugs and pulls an apologetic face to Sherlock's (adorable) pout. "Tell me about it later. Go on."

Sherlock presses his lips together, hesitating, but then gets in the cab. "See you later, John."

The taxi drives away, and John is left waiting for the next cab to come along, so he can drive to the other end of London. 

**16:12 Hi, Lucy. Not a problem. Be there 30 mins.**

~

It's the first time John has had a shift that is remotely busy, or with another person. The other barista is young, a film student at uni who doesn't stop talking about the awfulness of modern cinema and the genius of Hitchcock, and how having these opinions makes him superior to everyone else. He makes John feel old and miserable and exhausted within the first hour of his shift.

He thinks about all the times he has found himself miserable and bored and playing crappy games on his phone to pass the time, wishing for company. Now here he is with most of the tables filled up with all sorts of chattering people - mums with toddlers, people on dates, businessmen on phone calls as they drink their heavily caffeinated drinks - and yet he's still bored and desperate to leave. Or rather, desperate to find Sherlock again and find out what is going on with the case. 

Finally, the shift ends and the manager allows him to go out for a bite to eat. ("Don't bother with our sandwiches," she advises. "They taste like shit and the owner only bought them to name them after famous 'witches'. They probably violate a few health codes too.") Just as John puts on his coat and hums goodbye to his manager and the other barista, his phone lights up with a text from Sherlock.

**20:48 Go home and get your gun. SH**

**20:48 What? Why?**

Then, because he knows it might amuse Sherlock, he adds:

**20:49 I mean...gun? What gun?**

**20:50 Very funny. The gun in your drawer. SH**

**20:50 It's not nice to search through other people's possessions.**

**20:51It's also not nice to murder people. Today we'll be stopping a murderer, so I think the ends justify the means. SH**

**20:52 Fair point. Going home now. Solved the case, then?**

**20:53: Oh, yes. Will explain when I get there. SH**

**20:54 Also, next time you want to keep your gun safe, don't put it in an unlocked drawer.**

John smiles as he puts his phone away, then gets a cab back to the flat. 

When he comes back to the coffee shop later, now refuelled with food and with a gun stuffed down the back of his trousers, hidden by the loose wool jumper that Sherlock scoffs at whenever he sees John wearing it, the shop is empty, except for Sherlock, who is sat at the table, his legs crossed as he casually sips at his coffee. It's a welcoming sight that makes John smile. He sits opposite him, as he did when they first met.

"How did you get that coffee?"

"Made it myself. The machine isn't that hard to use. And before you say anything, don't worry, I did pay the appropriate amount into the cash register and left a tip in the jar."

"But I locked the cash register."

"That's nice." Sherlock takes another sip. "Have you got your gun?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. You'll need it."

"Why?"

"Because I texted the murderer and he'll be here soon for us to arrest."

"I'm sorry? You _texted_ a murderer?!" John shouts.

"Ssh, it's fine, John," he placates calmly. "I used Lila Madison's phone. My phone number is on the website. I wouldn't want the murderer recognising it."

"Assuming the murderer is in any way interested in your website and how to identify 240 types of tobacco ash."

"243," Sherlock corrects with an offended frown. 

"Doesn't matter. You can't just use a dead woman's phone. Besides, Lestrade would have a fit if he knew you had stolen that from the crime scene."

"It's not like Lila will need it. It's fine, I put it back afterwards. And the other victims' phones, after I took them from the evidence room in Scotland Yard."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John rests his head in his hands with a groan. "You'd better have a good justification for all of this, or I'll report you to the police."

"They won't arrest me. They need me. Besides, are you really going to report your only friend?" John glares at Sherlock, who then accepts defeat. "Fine. I'll tell you what happened."

Sherlock explains everything in detail, and as he does so, John feels his anger ebbing away, soothed by Sherlock's deep, rich voice and his interest piquing as the case becomes clearer. He describes how he took the mobile phone from the crime scene, knowing it would be useful and police officers tend to forget the uses a phone can have in solving crimes. After leaving the crime scene, he went immediately to the morgue to see the previous victims who had both been killed within the last week. Sure enough, there were small traces of there having been tattoos on their little fingers, which had been cut off in the same clean, swift way. None of the nearby tattoo artists recognised the faces of the victims, nor had they heard of the tattoo design, which Lestrade had texted to Sherlock upon interviewing the victim's friends and families, so Sherlock immediately knew that this tattoo had been done privately.

"Maybe they all got it from outside the area?" John interjects.

Sherlock scoffs. "All three of them, all reclusive and have probably never left London in their lives? I doubt it."

He goes on to explain how due to the reclusive nature of the victims, their secretive personal life, the mysterious tattoos cut off in such a calculating way, and the books in Lila Madison's flat that were so focused on spiritualism and doomsday, the obvious solution was that they were each part of a cult."

"A cult?!" John exclaims.

"Yes, obviously. A cult which focuses primarily on preparing for an apocalypse, both in terms of their physical needs and spiritual needs. What I imagine happened is that these three victims left and threatened to tell people about the cult, which most likely had a darker, more criminal side to it, and in response the leader had them killed and the tattoo cut off as a message to the other members."

John shakes his head incredulously. "There has to be a more... normal explanation than that." 

"Can you think of one?"

"...No."

"Exactly. So once I came to this conclusion, I went through each of their contacts, looked for a shared phone number, texted it pretending it was one of his victims back from the dead to damn his soul or whatever, and now we wait."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Then he won't turn up and we'll go back to the drawing board."

"And if you're right?"

"He'll show up, wait outside, oscillate on the pavement nervously, then we chase him and arrest him."

"Do we have the authority to do that?"

"Of course." Sherlock pulls out a police badge from his pocket and John's eyes widen. "GOt it from Lestrade. I pickpocket him when he's being annoying. Don't worry, I have another one here if you want it."

"Uh, no thanks," he laughs. "God, if Lestrade finds out..."

"He won't. He hasn't noticed for years." Sherlock reassures him with a smile while he continues to giggle, almost hysterical as he realises just how weird and wonderful his life has become. 

They wait a few moments in silence, watching out of the window for any sign of movement. So far there is none, with no one even entering the coffee shop as a customer. Eventually, Sherlock speaks. "By the way, I have something of yours here you might want."

"Oh yeah?"

Sherlock reaches behind him and brings out John's cane. John's smile fades as he stares in bewilderment, eyes flicking between the object and the person in front of him. He didn't even notice that he had gone the whole day without a limp. "But I - how?!"

"Left it at the flat when you ran off with me to the crime scene. If I had known a bit of excitement and adventure was all it took to cure you of a psychosomatic limp, I would have murdered someone ages ago. Or I would have just taken you to a crime scene."

"Yeah, I think the latter is a bit better." John grins and takes the cane from him. "Thank you, Sherlock. Seriously."

He smiles back, small and bashful, while making a dismissive hand gesture. "Not at all. I never intended this. I barely did anything."

"You did lots. More than you know, really," John replies sincerely, and then when he feels the air becoming sombre, his feelings sitting in his chest and ready to burst out, he chuckles and adds, "At least now I'm no longer limping everywhere you can experiment on what an absence of caffeine and sleep does to my physical abilities."

Sherlock shakes his head. "John," he says, his voice low and only just above a whisper, "I don't care about that experiment. I haven't for a while now."

"Oh?" 

"I just like your company." He reiterates emphatically, "it was never about the experiment." 

John opens his mouth, intending to reply but having no idea how to respond; _Me too_ and _I think I have feelings for you_ and _You're the best thing that could have possibly happened to me_ all seemed too accurate and too honest. Thankfully, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a man oscillating on the pavement, pacing anxiously and looking around with jerky head movements. "Sherlock," he says quietly, "is that him?"

Sherlock turns to look out of the window and makes a noise that John can only assume is out of frustration, surprising for someone who is normally so determined to close cases. "Yes. Let's go."

They run out of the coffee shop, John quickly turning the 'open' sign around to show 'closed' as he passed through the door. "Police! Freeze!" Sherlock yells, and the man instantly breaks out into a sprint. 

They chase him down the road, passing pedestrians, cutting in front of cars and taxis, cutting down alleyways. The man is fast, but so are Sherlock and John. The adrenaline pumps in John's veins and he grins, even as the wind stings his veins and his legs and lungs ache, desperate for oxygen. Eventually, they come to a dead end and the man presses against the wall, breathing heavily, panic-stricken, a knife steadily held out in front of him. John points his gun back at him, still on safety but ready to disarm him if he dares to even touch Sherlock.

"Don't come any closer," The man threatens. "Or I'll make you bleed while your boyfriend watches."

"There's nowhere for you to go, now," Sherlock says, as calmly as he can as he recovers his breath. "You're under arrest for the murder of Lila Madison, Oliver Fox, and Tom Marshall."

"It was for the greater good!" The man all but screams back, at least confirming Sherlock's theory. "Besides, you're not the police. I can tell. You can't stop me."

"Are you willing to test that?" 

The man lunges with his knife towards Sherlock with a snarl, and John reacts on instinct. He grabs his wrist, bending it behind him, causing him to cry out in pain, then pins him to the ground, tossing the knife to the side. 

"Call the police," John tells Sherlock. He only receives silence in response and a wide-eyed stare of shock and amazement and...desire? No time for that now. "Now, Sherlock!"

Sherlock nods and frantically types out a text to Lestrade on his phone. Once he's done, he puts the phone back in his pocket and kneels beside John, who is still pinning the criminal to the ground. He grabs John's face in both hands, as he did earlier, and kisses him, this time on the lips. His lips are soft and cold from the cool night air and somehow makes John more breathless than he was before, while warming him through to the very core of his stomach. "John," he breathes when they finally separate. "Move in with me."

A bark of laughter escapes him, startled. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You saved my life, John. I want you as my flatmate. No one else."

John giggles. "One kiss and you already want to me to move in? You have to buy me dinner first," he teases, a flirtatious infliction on his voice that makes Sherlock grin with relief.

"Not dinner. Not hungry. However," he adds, with a smirk, "I do know an excellent coffee shop nearby. The barista is excellent."

"Really? 'Cos I hear he's a bit of a dick," John quips back. "Can't even play chess properly."

"I don't care," he replies. "His company more than makes up for any flaws he may or may not possess." 

John leans up and kisses him again. "Alright. A Whole Latte Love on you."

"Ugh. Never mind, we'll go somewhere with normal drink names."

When the police arrive and the criminal is taken away, they end up returning to the coffee shop just to pick up John's cane, then they return to Baker Street, where Sherlock invites John up for coffee.

John moves in the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments!


End file.
